


Iron & Oxygen

by mekana47



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Abduction, BAMF Quynh | Noriko, Blood, Community: theoldguardkinkmeme, F/F, Non-Graphic Violence, Pre-Canon, Quynh | Noriko-centric, Swords, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:40:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29790003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mekana47/pseuds/mekana47
Summary: “Your priority is keeping them off the horses. I’ll drop in from here, and we’ll meet in the middle as best we can. Andromache,” Quỳnh hates that her voice almost quivers. “She’ll pick up a weapon as soon as she’s able.”-or-Andromache's been taken, and Quỳnh will take on a whole militia if that's what it takes to get her back.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko
Comments: 13
Kudos: 44





	Iron & Oxygen

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be for Femslash February. Oops?
> 
> Inspired by my own prompt on the Old Guard Kink Meme [HERE](https://theoldguardkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2487.html?thread=498615#cmt498615).
> 
> Unbeta'd so feel free to point out any typos or strangeness.

The enemy encampment is nearly impenetrable to those unwilling to make a slow, treacherous descent down one of the three sheer cliff faces enclosing the camp. Any such person would be visible far too early unless they risked the descent on the darkest of nights. With Andromache captive in one of the dozen tents, Quỳnh is willing to risk much more.

“Twenty-seven men in the camp,” Yusuf murmurs from the tight crevice he’s wedged inside.

“Two with the horses at the tree line.” Nicolò lies flat on a jagged boulder on Quỳnh’s other side. “Possibly one other in the shadows.”

“Two on the path,” Quỳnh adds. The small line of broken foliage can hardly be called a path, but it is the most likely escape route if the men don’t stop for the horses. “At least one where the latrine must be.”

“They’re unlikely to travel alone, even for that,” Nicolò says. 

Quỳnh hums her agreement, and the men fall silent. 

They’ve been speaking little since reviving after the militia’s ambush to find Andromache gone.

Focusing on strategies of attack helps Quỳnh not dwell on why Andromache was taken in the first place. Quỳnh has to wonder if it was a sacrifice to get the troops away from them before they could revive. It’s a foolish notion, but Andromache is rarely a fool.

“Two at the water source,” Nicolò says.

“They were in my twenty-seven,” Yusuf says gently. 

The sun hasn’t yet set, but there’s a fragility in the moment that makes whispers feel appropriate. Quỳnh’s skin crawls when it tips too close to reverence. 

“What’s the plan?” Nicolò asks her, still too damn gentle.

They’ve only been traveling together a dozen years or so, and Andromache had naturally fallen into the lead for most of their activities. Having to step into the role is a different kind of ache, and it’s made her short temper even shorter. She’d snapped at Nicolò not an hour before because his stolen horse had stumbled on the rough terrain. 

“Nicolò, you’re our eyes and arrows,” she says.

The angle into the encampment is too steep for precision shooting, but Nicolò says, “Understood,” and starts scanning for the best place to perch. He only picked up the bow a few decades ago. He’s a patient student, and she’s far better, but his acquiescence makes her more confident in her plan.

“Yusuf, slip into the trees and take out the men there.”

“Will do.” Yusuf edges out of his crevice.

“Your priority is keeping them off the horses. I’ll drop in from here, and we’ll meet in the middle as best we can. Andromache,” Quỳnh hates that her voice almost quivers. “She’ll pick up a weapon as soon as she’s able.”

Neither man voice the concern they all share. If Andromache could have freed herself, she would have by now. Quỳnh’s dropping into a position with no escape route, and it may just be the three of them taking on this militia.

At least the militia is already half the size it had been before their ambush.

“We’ll wait until you’re in position,” she says.

Yusuf crosses to squeeze Nicolò’s forearm before disappearing down the rocky hillside away from their targets. 

Turning away, Quỳnh searches for signs of Andromache. The tents are laid out in a three-by-four grid with enough space between them to swing her blade, and they’re tall enough to hide her progress.

When she glances to Nicolò again, he has gathered the arrows from their various bags, checking them over one-by-one before sliding them into the quiver. It feels finicky, even though predictable arrows are a necessity.

She drums her fingers on a rock and turns back to the encampment rather than risk snapping at him again. 

It takes too damn long for Yusuf to reappear. He’s a flash of movement at the edge of the path. The two men drop silently, their throats slit before they could react, and their bodies disappear into the foliage. 

He reappears a moment later near the horses, and those men fall just as quickly and silently.

“Time to go,” Quỳnh whispers, and then scowls at herself for whispering.

Nicolò slides off the far side of his boulder, moving higher, and Quỳnh begins her own descent, picking her way to the lowest position before the sheer drop. At the edge, she unsheathes her blade and takes a breath.

It’s fallen on her to keep them all safe, and she will.

The drop is far enough for instinctive panic to flare, but Quỳnh tucks into a roll on impact. The air’s knocked out of her, and pain robs her of her senses, but she recovers quickly.

An arrow flies past her face, silent as it jams into the throat of a man staring at her. 

It’s the best signal she’s going to get.

She rushes forward, swinging with precision as her focus narrows down to the battle at hand. The first man falls with a soft, wet noise, but the second gets off a strangled cry that echoes off the cliffs.

Men shout and the clang of metal means they’re arming themselves, but reinforcements do not rush from the depths of the camp. They must not know where the attack is coming from. 

The noise and confusion give her enough cover to take out the last two men in her sightline.

She skirts around a tent on silent feet and takes out a man locked in a heated conversation. The second man cannot pull his blade before Quỳnh has taken his life. A third man charges forward with gusto but no finesse.

It’s easy to cut him down and keep moving forward. Bodies fall on either side of the path as she presses her advantage, blood spilling against sand and stone. 

A loud cry rings through the twilight, and Andromache’s voice sparks urgency. Quỳnh swings sharply and spins faster, using more energy than necessary to strike down these men where she spies them rather than letting them make mistakes coming to her.

A clang of steel on steel rings in the distance, but she hardly notices.

Her only objective is to reach Andromache before any more harm comes to her.

The men eventually coordinate like the militia they truly are, and a group of them surround her in a wide circle.

“Well, this is a surprise,” one of them says, leering. 

It might be comical in another situation, but Quỳnh uses to the opportunity to catch her breath and evaluate. 

“Tell me—"

Quỳnh doesn’t let him finish speaking, lunging forward to slash the man in the chest. She whirls, and the blade catches the closest man in the throat. There’s a moment of near silence before the others converge on her, but they are unprepared for her wrath. They’ve harmed her beloved. They will not survive to see full darkness.

She sweeps low, driving the men back and then luring them forward in a deadly dance they cannot seem to resist.

“Enough!” 

The commander’s voice doesn’t keep her from slicing a man across his unarmored thigh. He collapses with a scream.

“Enough!” the commander tries again.

His men slow, but Quỳnh has no need to heed his words. Their hesitation benefits her, and she takes down another man.

“Is this who you’re looking for?” the commander booms. 

Quỳnh drives two men back to the edge of the path before finally looking at the commander. He holds Andromache to his chest, her arms tied behind her and a gag splitting her mouth. She supports her own weight and meets Quỳnh’s gaze with calmness.

There’s nothing more Quỳnh needs to know.

The commander shakes Andromache in his hold, but he’s unarmed and clearly uncertain what to do. Perhaps he hasn’t yet realized that he’s the one who should be opening negotiations for surrender.

Quỳnh flicks her eyes around at the men still standing, but they do not approach. Their attention is divided between her and seeking out orders. 

Blood runs into Quỳnh’s eye, but it isn’t her own. Her only wound so far is a slice to the upper arm that’s long since healed. She wipes away the blood on her torn sleeve, shifts her grip on her blade, and lowers her chin. It’s unwise to let the men get into better positions, but she gives the commander one moment to speak. 

He doesn’t take it, and Quỳnh lunges toward the closest man. The others descend again, closing the circle around her with more coordination this time. A sword catches her in the thigh, a glancing blow that knocks her off balance more than anything, but Quỳnh does not stop. 

The commander shouts, but there is no shaking Quỳnh’s focus now that she can see the other side of this battle. 

She slays two more before a blow perhaps from a pommel drives her back several steps. Three assailants advance, and Quỳnh takes another step back to assess before launching into close quarters. The men struggle to adjust.

Someone shouts again, but it no longer matters. 

Her blade strikes true over and over until finally no more come. Panting, she spins, searching, but Andromache is gone and the commander is not among the bodies.

Quỳnh’s ragged breaths and racing heart make it impossible to listen for a trail. With no hints about his path, panic grips her. She takes two steps in a direction, chosen nearly at random, but an arrow pierces the sand at her feet. She jumps back, lifting her weapon to take on the threat when she remembers Nicolò.

She turns and dashes in the opposite direction. At an intersection in the tents, she turns and another arrow hits the sand, the exact distance from her feet as the first. Pride blooms, but she doesn’t linger, turning and sprinting in a new direction.

A moment later another arrow guides her to take a turn toward the tree line, and the commander’s voice does the rest of the work.

“You can take her,” the commander says, shaken. “Take her and spare whoever is left. No more lives need to be lost tonight.”

No more lives need to be lost _for her_ , he means.

Quỳnh slips through the foliage until she spies him, his dagger at Andromache’s throat, his focus on Yusuf. Even in the darkness, his eyes betray how close he is to doing something rash.

“No one is left,” Quỳnh informs him, and the commander’s head snaps around. “And he is not the one you need to beg for mercy.”

The commander’s knife digs a little deeper, but Andromache looks unaffected.

“This is a misunderstanding,” the commander tries, his eyes darting around without seeming to see either of them. “I would’ve let her go, if you’d asked.”

Yusuf snorts, but Quỳnh cocks her head and swings her blade so it draws his attention. “I’m asking now.”

The commander tenses, and his mouth drops open but he doesn’t speak. The moment stretches until Andromache rolls her eyes, the only signal before she slams her head back. His nose crunches, and he stumbles, his dagger slicing into her throat before she can jerk free and spin around to face him.

Quỳnh’s hardly realized she’s moved, but her blade sinks deep into his abdomen.

He gasps and collapses to the forest floor.

A hand touches Quỳnh’s shoulder and she turns to Andromache. Her hands are unbound, and the gag is gone. Only the stark brightness of blood on her healing neck gives any indication this captivity has happened at all.

Quỳnh should’ve given her the option to deal the killing blow. She offers her blade, but Andromache waves it off with a quirk of her lips.

“I am unharmed,” she says. “Had to wait for fewer witnesses. Do with him as you will.”

The blood on Quỳnh’s hands smears across Andromache’s skin as she cups the back of her neck and draws her close. Their foreheads rest against one another.

The commander coughs, wet and weak, and Quỳnh does not look away as she drives her blade into his chest. Whether he deserves a worse fate or not, she cannot say, but he does not deserve more of her attention.

As he falls silent, a tension runs out of Andromache. “There are truly none left?”

“Nicolò would know better than I,” Quỳnh admits.

“There are none,” Nicolò confirms, and Quỳnh startles but keeps the reaction from showing.

She draws away from Andromache and finds him standing at Yusuf’s side, their knuckles brushing between them.

“Good,” Andromache says. “We’ll check for supplies and take the horses.”

With Andromache in control, Quỳnh’s righteousness vanishes. The rage flees, and she becomes a woman covered in the blood and viscera of strangers who had made an unfortunate choice. The excitement of the fight no longer lends her strength, and she finds she cannot move.

“You are all well?” Andromache asks.

“Already healed,” Yusuf says. 

Nicolò scowls at him but says, “I was unharmed.”

Silence falls.

“Quỳnh?” Yusuf asks, sounding unsure in a way he hasn’t since their first year travelling together.

“I am healed,” she says weakly. It’s an honest answer but feels incomplete in a way she cannot place. 

“Come to the camp and rest,” Nicolò says. 

The offer is kind and heartfelt, but Quỳnh cannot explain why she hesitates.

Andromache squeezes her hand, a reassurance and a familiar comfort that doesn’t reach her core the way it normally does. 

“Come. Rest. Perhaps there is some water to clean with,” Andromache adds, squeezing her hand again before letting go.

Andromache takes the lead, and Quỳnh dutifully falls into line. As they enter the encampment, Yusuf gives a low whistle. There’s blood splattered across tents, bodies scattered across the sand, and an eerie silence. 

Nicolò wanders ahead, plucking an arrow from the sand, whole and undamaged from guiding her path.

“I…” Quỳnh tries. Faced with her own destruction, she cannot find words.

“Quỳnh?” Andromache says gently.

Quỳnh shakes her head, and Andromache is wise enough to let it go. Even still, as soon as Andromache’s ducked into one of the tents, Quỳnh’s breath catches uncomfortably under her ribs.

Yusuf comes to her side, his eyes on Nicolò, but a thoughtful look on his face.

“You did this?” he asks eventually.

There’s no hint in his tone what he’s trying to ask, so Quỳnh nods and waits. Both of them watch Nicolò examine another arrow for damage before tucking it into his quiver.

“I do not like to dwell on the things I would do,” Yusuf says, “the things I have already done to keep him safe.”

She swallows. She has long made peace with the blood she and Andromache spill for one another.

“And it is nice to know,” he says, staring at the place Nicolò disappeared behind a tent, tracing her path in reverse, “that love survives more lifetimes than most could even imagine.”

“I suppose it is,” she murmurs, and Yusuf finally looks at her, like he’s been waiting to hear her voice.

There’s something gentle and understanding in his eyes, and she doesn’t want to look at it, but she does breathe easier for its presence. 

He curls his fingers around her forearm, heedless of the blood on both of them. “Nicolò finds it a comfort as well.”

She squeezes his forearm and nods, accepting his statement as truth in the same way she can speak for Andromache on occasion.

When he lets go, a teasing smile plays at his lips. “Perhaps a rinse would not be amiss, though?”

“You as well,” she teases back, ghosting fingers over the blood splattered in his beard, acknowledging what he did because she asked it of him.

He crinkles his nose at her but doesn’t pull away. “I’d do it again.”

“I will do it again,” Quỳnh vows, “for any of you.”

Yusuf closes his eyes as if it is too great of a promise to bear, as if she doesn’t know he would do the same, but he simply says, “We should not linger.”

As he follows Nicolò’s path, Quỳnh’s unsurprised to find Andromache, bag in hand, standing at the edge of a tent.

Andromache dips her chin in her own acknowledgement, and Quỳnh lets herself believe they’re okay. Her little family is safe.


End file.
